


Understanding Barney

by LMX



Series: Understanding [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMX/pseuds/LMX
Summary: After years of hunting the Swordsman and the Worlds Greatest Marksman, SHIELD has finally captured Barney Barton. The only challenge is going to be keeping Clint from finding out.-Filling the gap between 'Reaching an Understanding' and 'Understanding the Aftermath'. More information about the warnings in the notes.





	Understanding Barney

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this fic mentions Clint's treatment at the hands of the Swordsman and Barney's crew and while it is all only referenced or implied, it is there, along with reference to other later/current victims. Barney's also a dick, so... Yeah. Consider yourself warned.
> 
> Additional note - this is not marked with a relationship tag, but some assumptions about Clint and Natasha's relationship are made by a third party so...
> 
> Kirageko took a look at this, but it's partially unbetaed, so I apologise for run on sentences and excessive exposition. Thank you so much to all the people who expressed an interest in more for this series. There are two other pieces (potentially) but I won't promise when you'll see them as I will only disappoint us all. XD

Some days Phil really regretted his open-door policy. On such a small outpost, it was good for staff to know their SAIC was available and approachable, and it made for a happier work environment than many Phil had worked in himself. But so far today he'd had two complaints about the canteen menu, one minor dispute over seniority that needed resolving and two staff members trying to cut out their own supervisory agent to request leave.

He had a very important document with a Level Five clearance on it that he really had to read, and it was hard going as it was, without interruptions that required the document to be put away every time someone appeared at his door.

He was just getting to the end (finally) of the science team's report and into the actually relevant data review sheet when Agent Myers herded a bemused-looking Clint into the room.

The Senior Agent was new to the outpost - only recently transferred in from the command fast-track program - and was heading up the small group of junior agents who had arrived with him. They were the first group of junior agents the outpost had seen since Natasha arrived, permitted now that her presence at SHIELD had been downgraded from its initial level four clearance level to a slightly more relaxed "it's been five years and no one has come for her yet" level two.

Hard to believe it had been five years since she'd agreed to follow Phil home and thrown his whole life into chaos. His promotion from a level 2 STRIKE Commander to level five Supervisory Agent In Charge had happened overnight (a long, sleepless night filled with excessive paperwork), just so SHIELD could have an outpost where she could stay without reducing the clearance level on her identity. There had been a rumour at one point that she'd refused to answer to anyone but Phil, necessitating his accelerated promotion, but if it was true then neither Fury or Natasha were admitting to it.

Myers was another of Fury's pet projects, although he wouldn't know that himself, and he had the Assistant Director keeping tabs on his progress through Phil. He seemed like a calm and collected leader, perfect for SHIELD's upper ranks. Right now, though, the Senior Agent's face red with fury.

"Agent Myers," Phil greeted blandly, watching as Clint took a wary position by the door, arms crossed defensively.

Clint should have been with Agent Zahir, working through second grade literacy worksheets, but Phil knew she'd phoned in sick this morning and he hadn't put those two facts together until just now. He didn't want to think what kind of trouble the teenager could have gotten himself into with nothing to occupy him.

Myers had stormed all the way up to his desk, but taken a breath before continuing, which made Phil respect him a little more. He still looked furious, but at least his words were collected. "This young man is reckless - dangerous! - in the range. He doesn't listen to instruction, and he wouldn't present his ID when asked."

Phil didn't allow his lips to twitch one iota. He *was* going to train his *entire* staff to wait for confirmation of understanding before they acted, if it killed them. So long as it didn't get Clint hurt in the meantime, of course. That was the pressing issue. The idea that an Agent like Myers, a good, senior Agent, might walk into a situation where verbal-only contact gave them no response and assume that they were being ignored truly frightened him.

"Are you alright?" he signed for Clint.

Myers made an odd, choked noise, and span on the spot in time to catch Clint's reply; "This guy surprised me. I broke an arrow."

With a limited allowance of arrows, preserving each one had become a bit of an obsession for Clint, something he measured success by - given that every one hit the bullseye.

"Your ID?" Phil continued, just in sign. Usually he'd try to speak out loud with a non-signer in the room, for politeness' sake, but Myers had earned some rude treatment.

"Matt," Clint replied simply, reminding Phil that as a civilian, the range master kept Clint's ID while he was on the range.

"Sir," Myers stepped forwards again. "I can't help but think I've made an ass of myself here. I didn't realise the young man was..."

"Agent Myers," Phil interrupted. "Did you address the range master before removing Mr. Barton from the range?"

The Agent blanched. "No, sir."

"What exactly did you deem to be so reckless as requiring your intervention?"

Phil appreciated that Myers took a moment to think over his response - he was fairly sure that at least one of his issues was going to be Clint not wearing ear protection, which was an ongoing argument and Phil would be firmly on Myers' side. They had yet to get a pair of hearing aids tuned so that Clint would actually wear them, but the fact remained Clint did still have hearing that could be damaged.

"While I was watching, sir," Myers said eventually, "He took a series of shots without aiming at all - without even looking down the lane!"

"Did the shots go wild?" Phil asked - genuinely curious. It wasn't a trick he'd seen Clint do, and while it was far from complete, he was quickly building a list entitled 'reasons Clint Barton should lay ownership to the World Greatest Marksman title over his brother'.

"That's surely irrelevant, sir?" Myers bristled.

"How so?"

"There were juniors in the range, sir, and Mr. Barton was unknown to us. While I have no doubt the young man is supremely talented, if a junior attempts to reconstruct his shots, there's going to be a fatality. I would raise the same issue of imitation with deference to ear protection, sir, whether or not he needs it."

Phil nodded, conceding both points easily. Clint knew better, really, which lead Phil to the worrying thought of punishment. He was still a teenager, testing his limits since escaping his Brother's grimly abusive underworld, and while Phil had promised more than once over the last few years not to punish him for failing to perform, he needed to be able to lay down the law if he was going to keep allowing Clint on site.

Making sure to speak out loud as well as sign - a good workout for his brain, as he tried not to mangle grammar on either side of the equation - Phil turned to Clint; "You will wear ear protection in the range, or the range master will ask you to leave. No arguments. Showing off is for assessment only. Trick shots are for private range time." Phil was pretty proud of himself for that little speech - he hoped his sign had been as clear as it had sounded in his head.

Clint was shaking his head, a stubborn frown appearing. "The range was empty..." he started, and Phil cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"I know you're more aware of your surroundings than that," he returned, giving up on verbal speech for a moment. "Especially if you're not looking at the target."

Clint looked chagrined, shoulders rounding.

"Agent Myers, Mr. Barton is obliged to leave his ID with the range master on entering the range. If you see any further activity you consider to be unsafe in a less-than-immediate sense, please consult the range master before taking action."

"Sir," Myers said. "If you don't mind... And if Mr. Barton..." There was a pause, perhaps as Myers took note of the name and how it related to an ongoing operation out of this office. "I mean, he obviously knows what he's doing with a bow - the shots he made were remarkable, but I'm guessing he's never been *taught*."

"Not as such," Phil replied to the non-question, thinking of after-dark confessions of 'I wasn't allowed, but the bow was there and no one saw me not sleeping, up all night practising.'

"Sir, his form's for shit right now. He's accurate as hell, but there's no consistency to his power, and he's going to wreck his shoulders and the tendons in his fingers if he continues this way."

"Are you volunteering your time, Agent Myers?" Phil asked, amused by Myers' sudden intensity.

"A lesson, sir," Myers looked back at Clint, who was perfecting the appearance of bored. "As an apology for the misunderstanding."

Phil explained what Myers had offered, and raised an eyebrow as Clint shrugged disinterestedly.

"I can't spare anyone to interpret," Phil warned, wishing teenagers were less troublesome even as he hid his amused smile.

"I'm sure we'll get by, sir. For one lesson."

-

It was four more hours before Phil managed to get to the other end of the Level Five clearance file, and write up and action all of the notes he'd taken. He wasn't sure whether Clint would still be on the range, but he needed to talk to Matt about some stricter enforcement regardless, and there was a small chance he would be able to catch up with Natasha, since it looked like she was going to be the centre-point of any action out of the file.

He definitely wasn't expecting to step through the range's double doors to the sounds of Clint's laughter and a crowd gathered around the last two lanes. Matt grinned at him as he passed, the older Agent stood leaning against the door to his booth, on the edge of the crowd, but with a clear view of the two archers, and the archery targets at the other end.

Phil didn't really have an image in his mind when it came to 'form' in archery. He'd seen a handful of films with archers in them and taken that as about right, and seen photographs of Charles Barton in action which seemed much the same. Then he'd met Clint, who seemed so natural with a bow in his hand that there had been no doubt in his mind that everything about the way he used a bow was perfect.

Now he understood what Myers had meant. Myers, standing with his bow drawn, looked twice as tall as he did without, all strong angles, like a mathematical drawing. Even in just a few hours, he had Clint standing taller, more turned into the lane and with his drawing elbow higher, his other elbow turned out.

The two of them were drawing and shooting without pause against a countdown on the back wall. With each hit, a number flashed up alongside the target - not a score because Clint's arrows were all clustered in the central ring and the number was fluctuating, whereas the number next to Myers' target was consistent despite a slightly wider spread across the target.

The timer ran out and Clint had his bow placed reverently on the platform and quiver on the floor, crowding over Myers' shoulder as the Agent picked up a tablet that had been set aside. The gaggle of juniors that were making up the observing crowd took a couple of steps back as the excitement died down, letting Phil sneak to the front.

Myers was silently highlighting values on an auto-generated spreadsheet, with a thumbs up or thumbs down, sometimes a so-so gesture. Clint was still grinning, but seemed to be taking in whatever Myers was explaining. He did a double-take as his habitual glance-scan of the faces around him revealed Phil.

"Good lesson?" Phil asked, not wanting to interrupt if he wasn't needed, but infected by Clint's enthusiasm.

"We're learning strength," Clint replied, grinning maniacally.

Pressure pads on the target, Phil realised. Myers was trying to get Clint's force equal on every shot.

"I'm not going to ask if he's enjoying himself," Myers put in, carefully waiting for Clint to finish signing. "But does he get what we're working on?"

"Ask Clint," he advised. "I'll interpret for you."

"Do you understand what we're working on?" Myers directed at Clint after a pause, an obvious mental shift in gears. Phil wondered, not for the first time, how much of that was a throwback to military training, the inability to dismiss a superior or address anyone but the most senior person in the room. Some of the folks in medical had a very hard time of it, an issue they'd finally resolved by rarely using Phil as Clint's chaperone on site.

"First," Clint started, almost to attention in front of Myers, "You changed my posture... stance?" Phil was guessing a little at the sign, but it was an educated guess. "Then grip. Then I tried left handed," Clint made a face to express what he thought of that, before finishing; "Now we're working on strength." Phil hesitated as Clint's gaze darted to him. He signed, "Something like again, again, again the same...?" and shrugged.

"Consistency," Phil said out loud, and spelled it back for Clint.

"Good," Myers nodded his approval. "I was worried I wasn't being clear - you have some bad habits, but your natural talent is remarkable."

Clint ducked his head and moved to unstring the bow.

"Hey," Myers interrupted, tapping Clint's upper arm until he turned. The agent gestured at the reset timer on the far wall. "I want a rematch."

Clint didn't need Phil to understand, he read body language with perhaps-unsurprising skill, but he turned his way for permission.

Phil gestured a go-ahead, adding; "I won't stop your fun. Natasha will find us." And headed back over to talk to Matt.

-

Agent Barbera Zhu of Occupational Health had been Phil's first point of contact when Clint had arrived in their holding room non-verbal and lacking in understanding. She'd been the one to build up Clint's communication skills, to make sure he understood who SHIELD were and their intentions. He'd become a fixture at their little SHIELD outpost, one not formally acknowledged as the technicalities of a civilian on a base like theirs was a little hazy, but he went home with Barbera at the end of the day.

Phil had made a lot of plans for Clint's eighteenth birthday, with Barbera's approval, since the day Clint had taken them both aside and told him that he was planning on joining the SHIELD academy, and what did he need to do to make that happen?

There had been conversations with academy staff, documents and legislation from Barbera's contacts in Occ Health. There had even been one memorable conversation with Fury where his fears of being too emotionally invested in Clint's well being was met with a response of; 'Well get uninvested, I'm not going around having my people falling over their damn feelings every time a mission leaves the base.' Between all that, there was a plan in place.

Deferring on high school certs was not uncommon in an organisation that employed more orphans and runaways that the national average. There was a structure for remedial learning at the academy, and Clint's education would be better supported there than being passed around the various Agents on base in their rare free time.

The problem was that these things never happened quickly.

All Phil had wanted was a date for the intake interview to arrive (it hadn't) and for the paperwork for the training and skills assessment to come through (still waiting) and for their favourite cheesy diner to be quiet enough that Clint wouldn't feel the need to take out his newest pair of hearing aids, so that he could at least partially enjoy it when the in-house Mariachi band assaulted them with the Happy Birthday song (it hadn't been, but Phil had appreciated Clint's feigned enthusiasm).

He really, really hadn't wanted to turn up to work early the next morning, the morning of Clint's eighteenth birthday to find that Agents had finally cornered Charles Barton and the remainder of his crew, and that they were two hours out with their prize.

Phil was rushing towards holding when he spotted Barbera, and stopped long enough to ask; "Is Clint on site?"

"He stayed on base with Natasha last night," Barbera replied with a secretive grin, which turned exasperated at Phil's look of surprise. "Oh, don't look at me like that, they know what they're doing. If they're doing anything at all. What's lit a fire under your tail?"

Phil carefully packaged away any thought he might have on Clint and Natasha being more than good friends, sticking a big 'not my business' label on it before explaining who was being assessed in medical at this very moment before they were released into holding.

"Do I bring Clint in straight away? Or at all?" Phil pressed, knowing this was perhaps more a question for the Psych department, but deferring to Barbera on Clint's mental health.

Barbera's lips tightened and she shook her head. "Phil... By all accounts Charles Barton's a narcissist. His little brother was dependant, and attentive. Giving Clint back to him will only inflate his sense of self-worth; he'll take Clint's success, his growth, as his own achievement. It's not going to be healthy to either of them to see each other right now, but I don't know how long you can put it off."

"We're a secret agency, if we can't get away with processing a prisoner and getting him relocated without a civilian finding out, we're not doing our jobs." Phil shrugged easily, wishing he believed his own confidence. "Can you make sure Clint's got tasks to keep him busy? I might need you on hand."

"Sir!" Robinson was sprinting down the corridor, grasping a handful of paperwork. "The recovery team have just linked Barton's location to a spate of missing women. The local PD were investigating Barton's group, but if we got them all then they've lost their source of intel."

"I'll make sure Clint is clear of this," Barbera reassured as Phil shot her a glance. "Focus on your work, forget who he is, what he's done. Don't let it get you angry. Bring them down, Phil."

-

Phil laid out his notes and added the police report that Myers had offered him. Their holding cell was going to be crowded, but Phil had bypassed the bulk of the gang and was waiting from behind one way glass for Charles to be brought into the interrogation room.

It was Robinson who manhandled the man into the little room, leaving him cuffed to the table as he stepped around to the attached observation room. Phil took the moment to observe Charles Barton, obviously older, hair a little darker, but in almost every other way the picture of his brother.

"Has he spoken to anyone yet?" Phil asked as Robinson stepped in behind him. He forced himself to look away from the man in the holding room, finding it hard to dispel the image of Clint, who'd been sat in exactly the same place, just as slumped and defeated, only a few years before.

"No sir," Robinson acknowledged. "We've been waiting for you - figured you'd want the honour. He's been offered water and coffee, but from the shake in his hands I'd say he's craving something stronger."

Phil took in the older Barton's clenched hands with a start. He should have noticed that straight away, should have already processed every visual clue Charles was giving out. Instead he'd been distracted by the familiarity of his face.

With expert timing, Dr. Ricci from Psych appeared at the door, eyebrows raised at the man in the chair on the other side of the glass. "Please tell me you want me observing, Phil. You know I barely passed interrogation 101."

"This is too close to me, Anthony, and I need a second pair of eyes to make sure I'm not going to miss any cues. Eyes which are good at body language are always a bonus. I won't make you go in, just watch for things that I might not see."

"What's your intention here."

"Have you been briefed?" Phil checked, waiting for a nod before continuing. "We need to know about the missing women first and foremost, but I want to know what the larger plan was. The Swordsman has been linked with some very elegant, convoluted plots. We need to know if anything else had been set into motion, whether there are other cells anywhere. We don't know if Duquense left them to set up on his own or if he's with others."

"What do you plan on saying about Clint?"

Phil shot him a look. "Barbera has suggested I say nothing, that I avoid them finding out they're in the same building. Do you agree?"

"The information might prove valuable in getting those girls home safely. I wouldn't rule it out immediately, although I agree it's not in Clint's best interests to reunite them." They shared a look, and Phil knew they would both prefer that Clint's best interests were their first priority here. "Wait for him to ask, don't offer the information. And even then I would open with a suggestion that you have no idea what's happened to him, that you barely remember capturing him, but that more information might be available by exchange. Do not suggest that Clint means anything to you - to anyone here. It only gives him the upper hand."

Phil took a moment to absorb that and intentionally packaged away everything in his head, just leaving him with the cold, hard calm that came with the image of those women, trapped and isolated. Waiting for him to do his damned job.

He stepped into the interrogation room as his most unassuming self, taking the seat opposite and putting his file down on the desk. Charles glared at him, and he smiled, mild and polite.

"Hello, Mr. Barton. My name is Phil Coulson and I'll be conducting your interview today."

There was a snort of disbelief. "You think a fucking suit's gonna convince me you're not another SHIELD lackey? The fuck do you think I am?"

It was just noise, so Phil ignored it. "Where is Mr. Duquense?"

"That... that creep don't got anything to do with this crew, understand? He's gone, it's my crew now, and you're gonna regret taking me in, when the boys find out."

"If he's no longer with you, I'm guessing his master plan has fallen by the wayside. Tell me what your plan was, Mr. Barton. Where are the women being held?"

At the first mention of the missing women, Charles' expression hardened, turned a shade more aggressive as he planted his hands on the table. "Can I see him?"

The question threw Phil, expecting more vitriol. "Who?"

"Clint," Charles nearly shouted, shaking the table as his open palms came down. "You took him. You took him and I want to fucking see him."

"That's not on the table."

"Did you... did you fuckers kill him?" Charles was red and furious, halfway to standing as the cuffs brought him short, the shaking in his hands ever more pronounced.

"Sit down, Mr. Barton," Phil said, his tone utterly calm in the face of the antagonised man.

"Fuck you, Suit. I gotta right to ask for my brother. If you killed him, you're fucking dead. All of you. Every single one."

"Mr. Barton, your brother was captured by this organisation..." He glanced down at the file in front of him, feigning the search for dates. "Two years ago, now. What makes you think we still have him?"

-

When Phil returned to the observation room, his ears were ringing with Charles' verbal assault, all abuse and demands for the return of his brother, not a single word of useful information even when offered information in trade. Barbera had joined Anthony and Agent Robinson in the observation room.

"You lasted longer than I would," Barbera offered, sympathetic. "He's certainly forthright."

"I'm not entirely sure he's rational," Anthony offered. "He's terrified and suffering some kind of withdrawal, he may be fixating on his brother as a way to distract himself, with no intent of actually following through on any action to retrieve him. I doubt he'd know what to do with him if you presented him." Ricci put his hands up at Barbera's glare. "Which I'm not suggesting you do."

"He thinks I'm sending away for information on Clint, I've got time before he's going to expect that information to come back. I need that location, and he's made it clear Duquense isn't with them any more, so it's unlikely we're walking into another firefight."

Anthony shrugged, sliding his notepad over to Phil with a list of prompts on it. "Go back in there conversational," he said. "Get him talking about Clint. You'll find it distasteful, but use words like innocent, vulnerable, weak. Link his mental image of Clint to these missing women. I know we have a different view of it all, but Clint has always been sure that Charles cared for him and wanted him to be safe. The profile says he's not the one collecting, it might be enough if you can convince him you're just trying to help him keep them safe."

-

It felt horrible to downtalk Clint to Charles call-me-Barney Barton, to mention a vulnerable young man they took way out of his comfort zone and act as if he hadn't made a lasting impression, like Phil's only memories were being prompted from the intake file in front of him. It had opened a line of communication between them, made their exchange more amenable, but it wasn't doing much good. Barney Barton had calmed down somewhat, but wasn't any more open to talking about what he'd been planning or where his crew were hiding the kidnapped women. He was hiding his shaking hands by scratching and rubbing relentlessly at his wrists, but he didn't look any closer to folding.

This wasn't working, and Phil was getting bored of acting like he agreed with Charles' demeaning, underestimations of his brother.

"He used to drive me fucking crazy with his clicking," Barney said, apropos of nothing, and Phil felt like his patience just collapsed beneath him.

"You know why he does that, don't you?" he asked, knowing he was breaking character and just not caring. He was waiting for a familial grin, even a nod, but Barney just looked confused. "You don't," he realised.

"Look, my brother... he isn't all with it. He makes noises sometimes," Barney shrugged passively. It wasn't anything he hadn't already said, but it rubbed against Phil like sandpaper.

"It got your attention - generally in the form of violence, granted, but Clint formed an association, a habit. He does it without thinking, now, whenever he's bored. Whenever he wants attention." Coulson shook his head, not knowing how a brother could miss something like that, wondering how much more he'd missed by dismissing his brother out of hand. "He smiles when he's in social situations that make him uncomfortable, because it makes people more inclined to like him, less inclined to hurt him. Linguistics catalogued a twenty-two word sign language when he came in. Most of those words..." Coulson swallowed, feeling the rage bubbling in his chest and knowing whatever he said, it wouldn't change anything. "His language centred around making himself useful. He always wanted to know what he could do, how he could help, what you needed.

"Your brother, Mr. Barton, is completely, entirely 'with it', and I'm fairly sure you know that. You've known that since you were both boys. But you were too desperate to keep your brother placid and attentive, you've told yourself that he's stupid, that he doesn't notice your disregard, that he wouldn't care if he did notice. You left him behind in a firefight. You let him be taken by my Agents and you have the gall to demand his return after two years, like he is some kind of possession you misplaced. That's you, Mr. Barton. You didn't notice how much your brother cared. You didn't notice how badly they were hurting him, how badly *you* were hurting him, and then you abandoned him."

"I tried to stop them," Barney wheezed out, his shoulders shaking. Coulson was taken aback for a moment. He'd been sure that he wouldn't be able to reach the volatile man in front of him, but something had broken in that speech, and now Barney Barton looked cracked wide open. "I didn't have... I wasn't strong enough."

Phil closed an iron grip around the thoughts of what exactly Barney thought he couldn't stop. This was the breakthrough they needed, he couldn't get distracted now. "You couldn't stop them then, you can stop them now. The missing girls - the ones your men abducted - you can tell me where they are."

"It was never my... I just wanted to get away from the circus, alright? And Jacques had a way of doing that, making a little more money, moving up in the world. We were already making some on the side, out of the circus, and this would be easy like that. At least I wouldn't have to wear the fucking lycra suit anymore, tear my hands to pieces practising every minute of every fucking day." Barney stalled, distracted, and slammed both hands on the table in sudden fury; "How was I supposed to know about those guys, huh? Those... fuck, what they did..." His rage trailed off, and he slumped back into his seat. "I killed him. You should know that. I killed him for touching my brother."

Phil was cold and calm down to his bones. "Duquenes?"

"I can tell you where I put his body," Barney sobbed.

"I'd rather you told me where the girls are."

"I keep telling you, it was never my plan in the first place. And Jacques always had more control over the men than I did. Don't know why he ever let it get so big, so many players. He was greedy. A greedy fucking pervert."

"Where are they, Barney? Let me get them back to their families."

"At first they did it behind my back. But then there were too many of them, and I couldn't control them, and as soon as they worked that out..." Barney was shaking his head compulsively, his nails scraping bloody trails at the base of his thumb.

Phil breathed slowly. Calm. "I need a location. An address where your men took the girls they kidnapped. You must know."

"Of course I knew. They were doing it right under my nose. My own... my own brother. He's quiet, y'know... but the noises he made..."

Phil's hand hit the table with a slam that made it rattle. He hadn't even been aware his calm was cracking. "Give me an address, Barton," he ground out.

-

Coulson left the room straight-backed, firm, closing the door behind him and collapsing to the floor on the other side of it. He needed to move, get a strike force together to retrieve the girls and anything else the rabble of men had concealed, but it was like every mote of energy had deserted him.

"Myers is leading a team," Natasha said, crouching in front of him. "They're already en route, they'll meet the police and paramedics there." He hadn't noticed her arrive, he'd forgotten anyone was listening in the adjacent room. He would need to scrub some of that recorded audio, or at least lock it down. No one else needed to know what Barney had said today. Especially not Clint.

"You didn't feel like going?" he asked blandly, feeling that he should be moving, shouldn't be sat slumped in front of his subordinate like this. But he couldn't find a mote of energy in his body.

"I'm not good at being reassuring," she explained, reaching out with both hands to pull him upright by his lapels and then into another room across the hall.

"It can be reassuring to watch a woman beat your abusers senseless," Phil contradicted, but shook his head. "But no, I understand that. Where's Clint? I need to remind myself that he walked away from those... That he walked away."

"Steady sir," Natasha said, propping him against the wall and offering him his own handkerchief. He stared at it blankly as she stepped away to the comms. panel in the corner. She made a call before returning to push him into a seat. "Clean your face," she prompted. "Before he gets here. You look like someone's dead."

Phil wiped away tears he didn't remember shedding and pulled himself back together. The final piece of his psyche dropped back into place as Clint ambled in, shooting glove held loosely in his hand. He looked tall and strong and whole, so much more than the shattered man next door who'd failed to protect him at every turn.

-

In the end it was nothing but bad luck that Clint found out his brother was on site before Phil could close up the operation and get Barney Barton released to the police. Perhaps it was the right thing, Phil convinced himself as he let himself get talked into arranging a meeting, perhaps he would have felt guilty to have deceived Clint about something so important. He'd never get to find out now.

"I want to see him," Clint insisted.

"Are you sure?" Phil said, knowing he'd conceded in principle, but also needing Clint to be absolutely sure about what he wanted here.

"I helped you bring him here. I want to see him."

"I don't know how he'll act," Phil warned. "What he'll say."

Clint shrugged easily. "Neither do I. I've never talked to my brother." There was a hint of a smile on his lips, and Phil let himself acknowledge how big a thing this might be for Clint. He wasn't exaggerating, Clint didn't remember very much of his young childhood, but there was a good chance he had literally never exchanged a single word with his brother. "Will Barbera interpret for me?"

"I have no doubt she'll insist," Phil nodded easily. "Natasha and I will be in the room. You leave the moment you need to, don't wait for us. Don't let him touch you, understand?"

"What will he think of me signing?"

Phil bit down on the urge to point out that better people than Barney Barton had told Clint how proud they were of him. He knew the power of family, and Barney held more power over Clint than most family could.

-

The interrogation room was a little crowded, with Barbera standing by Barney's shoulder and Phil and Natasha bracketing the door. Clint had been shaking as they waited for Robinson to bring Barney down the hall, but he'd signed "Hello Barney" with steady hands. Phil's heart was too large for his chest as he watched Clint study his brother's face, as Barbera had explained her purpose here and emphasised that Barney should talk to Clint. As Clint started his first conversation with his brother, who was nowhere near worthy of Clint's continued affection.

"So you got this whole..." Barney waved jazz hands Clint's way, dragging his attention away from Barbera for a beat before he looked back, a broad smile creeping onto his lips. "This whole thing going for you, huh?" Barney finished clumsily.

"I like it. We learned as kids, do you remember?"

Barney couldn't seem to help himself from needing to look over his shoulder at Barbera as she spoke for Clint, and Phil briefly wondered whether he might have some hearing loss himself. If it had been a viral infection - measles was a high contender based on antigen testing - there was no reason to believe Barney wouldn't also have been infected and have received the same minimal treatment as Clint had. It didn't change anything, not really, but Phil was going to recommend a hearing test before they released him to the police.

"Yeah, I remember," Barney mumbled, glancing back and forth between Barbera and Clint before settling back in his seat, leaning forward a little. "I felt so important, learning for you. Man, I hated school, but I woulda kept going to those classes. I practised all the fucking time."

Phil's eyes narrowed as Clint paled, not liking where this was going. "You practised?"

"Sure, still remember some of it," Barney replied easily, "All my ABCs at least..." He obligingly fingerspelled through the first part of the alphabet. "There was that one social worker - the first one ta say you couldn't hear. Was her that taught us, remember? Then some of the others caught on, that's when we had ta stop."

"Why did we have to stop?" Clint's hands were shaking again, not nerves this time. Barbera shot Phil a warning look.

"If they'da known, they woulda taken you other places. Places that were made for people like you. I wouldn't've been allowed." Barney was sounding defensive now, but Clint was already replying and Phil knew there was no way to stop this.

"If they knew I was deaf... Who would have taken me?" Clint pressed.

"They tried ta take you, Clint. Soon as they found out. That's why we hadta go. Why we went to the circus."

"Barney, who?"

"The social worker said... There were these... these people who wanted a deaf kid. Maybe they were deaf, I don't know. You had appointments, for tests, but I already knew... They woulda taken you, Clint. To a different place, to a different school, and... I wouldn't have been able to watch out for you. You were *mine* to watch out for."

Clint was looking blankly down at his hands as Barney finished his appeal, and Barbera shook her head at Phil in a nice clear 'I told you so'. As he watched Clint's shoulder's start to shake, his hands clenching in his lap, Phil wondered if he was imagining the same thing Phil was. A safe home, immersed in Deaf culture, with language and friends and people who understood him. Or even just a life with a brother who could talk to him, who could include him. Who'd known how to sign all along and had let his brother flounder.

Phil stepped forwards as Clint surged up and threw a solid punch into his brother's cheekbone. Barney had his cuffed hands up in front of him defensively, but he wasn't making any move to fight back as Clint scrambled over the table and dug another fist into his ribs. Natasha's hand on his jacket sleeve stopped Phil from interfering.

"What are you doing?" she asked, as his eyes dropped to her barely restraining grip.

"He's a prisoner," Phil pointed out blandly. Clint made a noise of exertion and Barney one of pain.

"Phil... really?"

He thought about it for a moment more. "This isn't going to make Clint feel any better," he objected.

"This isn't about feeling better," Barbera returned, her own voice gone cold and hard as she stepped out of the way as the two Bartons tumbled across the room.

Clint broke the skin across Barney's cheekbone and Phil and Natasha finally moved in to pull him away.

Clint span out of their grip, heading for the door, and Phil let him go barrelling out of the interrogation room. He took a deep breath as Barney sagged back down in his chair.

"I'll go after him," Natasha said firmly. "Get this one out of here."

-

Clint hadn't gone far, and Natasha found herself back in the same room across the hallway from the interrogation room, pushing Clint into a chair and wondering what this room was even for.

He curled in on himself defensively, moving to scrub at his forehead, only to notice the blood across his knuckles and blanch.

Natasha moved in quickly, using a fresh handkerchief to hide the blood more than clean it as she urged Clint to sit upright so she could check him over. She was fairly sure Barney hadn't got any hits in, whether through guilt or resignation he hadn't seemed interested in defending himself, but it gave her something to do.

There was an unopened water bottle on a shelf in the corner of the room, and she opened it to wet the cloth and clean the blood from Clint's hands, and she was coldly pleased to see his knuckles barely marked. She would have punched the older Barton brother herself, given the chance. Even before learning what she had today.

Right now, if she was left alone with the man she might be tempted to break his neck just for the hell of it. There was a good reason she'd left Coulson to deal with him.

She pressed Clint's hands tightly together as he started to tremble again, and considered whether this would be a breakthrough or only set him back. It had taken months to get him to share about his brother, and nearly a year to get him to sit down and share everything he knew about his organisation. But he was still affectionate when he talked about his brother, still got angry or frustrated when they suggested he'd been far from caring. It was ever more horrifying as they learned more about the man himself, but it wasn't as if Natasha didn't understand. The Red Room had inspired utter loyalty to the point where they would thank their trainers for their punishments and their rewards equally.

She searched for all the things that had been said to her, to remind her that she escaped that life and she wasn't expected to live like that anymore. She racked her mind for anything to say that would help right now and came up empty. Giving up, she wrapped her arms around Clint's shoulders and pretended not to notice as her shirt got damp.

-

Phil slumped into his seat, exhausted as he filed the last of the paperwork on Charles Barton. He and the last of his gang would be signed over to the State Police for due process and a place in a civilian prison. They weren't dangerous enough to warrant the high level security of SHIELD's Fridge.

He flicked refresh on his emails for a last minute check before he headed home, and watched as two emails dropped into his inbox. The first was labelled "Interview Date - C.F. Barton", the second "Documentation for Prospective Academy Students".

With a tired laugh, he printed both and went hunting for Clint.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love


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